


Divided We Stand

by Salchat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Isolation, Team, Virus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23515906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salchat/pseuds/Salchat
Summary: A team returns from a mission carrying a deadly virus and Atlantis goes into lockdown.  How will the members of the expedition cope with months of isolation?  [Please note, although there is angst and fear in this story, I have tried to include the humour and inventiveness that we might expect from the Atlantis team.  It is, I hope, uplifting rather than frightening.]
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have written this story because I wanted to explore how the individual characters might deal with a long period of isolation, and to do this I have had to make the virus that threatens Atlantis much worse than the Coronavirus. This is not to scare anyone, but simply because, in such a small, controlled society, Coronavirus would not have been enough of a threat, and wouldn't have required the characters to be separated from each other. Anyway, there is humour amongst the angst and I hope you enjoy it.

_Up the stairs and along the gantry, his boots ringing on the metal surface, their beat steady and sure. He increased his pace on the straight, feeling his lungs beginning to strain, the muscles in his legs burning, the sweat dampening his shirt. Faster, as the gentle curve turned downward, and on toward the corridor that would lead him home. A sprint to the doorway, before his cool-down jog; legs pumping, eyes on his goal, the burst of power exhilarating. Nearly there._

_The door slid shut in front of him and, in his mind, John felt the finality of its closure; locked and sealed. He skidded to a halt._

_"Dammit," he gasped, without any particular surprise or annoyance. He turned and jogged back up the walkway, turned again, jogged and so on, until his breathing was calm and steady once more, then he stopped, did some stretches, walked up and down a bit and then finally sat down against the wall and waited. Silently and alone, John waited for Atlantis' decontamination cycle to complete._

**Two Weeks Earlier**

Rodney had decided, for a change, and because there was no particular crisis involving imminent death and last-minute saves, to get a good night's sleep. He wasn't impressed, therefore, to be rudely awoken by the citywide alarm when he'd only just dropped off, and even less impressed, when he fumbled for his squawking earpiece, to have Sheppard yelling urgently in his ear.

"McKay! Rodney!"

"What?"

"The City's locked down! We're in quarantine!"

"Why? What happened?"

"Sergeant Cruz's team Gated in and all the doors locked. Something's going on with the air-con too."

Rodney sat up; where normally he would have felt a soft, almost imperceptible breath against his skin, the air felt still and dead.

"McKay?"

He scrambled out of bed, tripped over his boots, and brought up the lights.

"Sounds like the airborne diseases protocol," he said, sitting down at his desk and tapping his laptop to life, all vestiges of sleep suddenly gone from his mind. "Are any of the team sick?"

"Control says they don't seem to be."

"Where are you?"

"In my quarters. Locked in, like everyone else!"

Rodney could hear the frustration in John's voice and knew he'd be pacing up and down like a caged tiger. He brought up a display.

"Yes, here it is; airborne diseases protocol, which means immediate lockdown and a negative pressure environment in the affected areas."

"And then what? We can't just sit here doing nothing!"

"And then it's up to the operator, that is, yours truly, to enact the next stage."

"Which is?"

"To allow a safe route for key medical personnel to get to hazmat storage, and from there to the affected area. Then to create a negative pressure route from there to the infirmary."

"Great. You can unlock my door while you're at it."

"No, I can't."

"McKay! Let me out!"

"No, I mean, I really can't. You know we've had issues before. I've done a lot of work on this, writing macros that will take over, and making it tamper-proof. The City's in control now."

"C'mon, Rodney, you must have left a back door!"

"No, Colonel! Airborne disease? What could you do, even if I could let you out, other than a great deal of damage? Now, shut up and let me work!"

oOo

John paced. And waited.

"Colonel Sheppard?" Woolsey's voice.

"Sheppard here."

"I'm afraid I have bad news." Woolsey's tone was grim. "I've just heard from Dr Keller." He paused and John felt his heart race. "Sergeant Cruz started showing symptoms on the way to the infirmary. And... and she died shortly afterward."

"Died?" John was stunned.

"Her temperature spiked, she collapsed, and then there was massive haemorrhaging."

The rest of the team? The Gate techs? The Marines?"

"Keller is monitoring them closely, but they're showing no symptoms as yet."

"Maybe they won't, maybe..."

"Colonel... Dr McKay informs me that Atlantis' system recognised the virus."

"Yes, he told me." John heard a sigh in his ear.

"The type seems to be one of a group that has a very high fatality rate and a potentially long incubation period."

"But Cruz..."

"Potentially long, which means it can vary significantly between individuals."

"Has Keller confirmed it?"

"No, not yet. But..." Another pause. "Colonel, we could be looking at months of quarantine."

"We can't just stay in our rooms and starve!"

"Dr McKay assures me that it's feasible, that the protocols are in place for individual door locks to be released periodically and that the Atlantis systems will keep people separate and decontaminate corridors and rooms after use."

"Some people are in groups, sharing quarters." There was no reply, so John drew his own conclusion. "If one goes, they all go."

"Sadly, yes."

"It might not be that bad. The system might have glitched."

"Let's hope so, Colonel. Woolsey out."

 _Months?_ John thought. _Months alone, isolated?_ For a moment, he envied the Marines in the shared quarters; but would that be worse? Confined for months, together? He thought about some of the characters he'd shared barracks with over the years; some of them would have driven him crazy. Questions flooded into his head; the logistics of separating the whole expedition, hundreds of people. Would the system allow for exercise? Let a few out at a time, keep them apart? Ronon - he'd break out no matter what; you couldn't keep a man like Ronon shut up in a small space for long. John was heartily glad that Teyla and Torren were away on New Athos. He wondered if the Gate would work; surely Atlantis would let them dial out, with the shield up, so they could communicate? They needed to let Teyla know, and Earth. Thoughts teemed in his head: the what-ifs, the whys, the whens, the hows. His pacing grew faster and he linked his fingers behind his neck, feeling the muscles ache with tension.

Then John stopped and closed his eyes. He let his arms fall to his sides and allowed his shoulders to sag, imagining tension draining away from them and dripping out of the ends of his fingers. He breathed slowly and his thoughts calmed.

Months. Who needed to think about months? Or weeks, or even days? It was too big, too much; all John needed was to know that at this time, in this present moment, all was being done that could be done, to safeguard all of the personnel on Atlantis and to stop this disease spreading anywhere else - to the Athosians, to other allies, to Earth. John wondered about the planet that Cruz's team had returned from. It had been a peaceful first contact mission to another of those typical Pegasus societies; small, agrarian, size and technology limited, as usual, by the Wraith. Anyway, it didn't matter; all that mattered was to do what was necessary, right now.

"McKay, what's happening?"

A pause, then Rodney's voice, flat and emotionless.

"It's done. I've enacted the lockdown protocol, allowing for the current whereabouts of all members of the expedition: access to food, limited exercise, negative pressure routes for medical staff, decontamination procedures."

"It's confirmed, then?"

"Yes," Rodney replied, tightly. "Jennifer ran the bloods. It's in the Ancient database. Rare. Incredibly infectious. Almost always lethal. We'll have to hope the isolation procedures kicked-in as soon as they came through the Gate, or..." He trailed away, leaving John to imagine the consequences.

"How long will this last?"

"If it got into the air supply... Well, it's a 'tricky little bugger,' as Carson would say; it could be up to five months before it shows up in blood tests or symptoms."

"Five months! What about the Gate? Can we let Earth know? And City systems? Can we run everything?"

"Yes, John, it's all rerouted to me," said Rodney, tiredly. "And Woolsey's telling the SGC now. He's already spoken to the Athosians."

"Did he talk to Teyla?"

"No, it was Halling. Ah, the Gate's shut down. I'll drop the shield." John heard the tap of Rodney's laptop.

"So, now what?"

"Woolsey'll do a citywide, tell everyone. Then... we wait."


	2. Chapter 2

Ronon was woken by Woolsey's announcement. He'd been woken by the alarm earlier, but had received a terse and uninformative reply from Sheppard through his earpiece, so had gone back to sleep.

He lay, in the darkness, judging the time by the quality of the light and the position of the shadows. Still a way to go til morning. He grunted once; a minimalist acknowledgement of the situation, then rolled over and went back to sleep again.

oOo

"I trust that you will all stand firm at this difficult time."

Rodney listened to Woolsey's announcement and was reminded of Neville Chamberlain addressing the British nation at the start of World War Two. "I know that you will all play your part with calmness and courage." And then he felt presumptuous and a bit foolish, comparing the possible fate of a few hundreds with the millions lost in that war.

He wondered what Jennifer was doing; whether she had any more patients with symptoms yet. The Ancient database had said that the incubation period could be anything from a few hours to over five months, translated into Earth units. They had never found a cure. Maybe Jennifer would.

He looked at the clock. Oh four fifteen. Such a short time for everything to change.

There was some chocolate in his desk drawer; should he eat it or save it? Rodney didn't move; just stared at his laptop. He could do some work. He could write up one of a number of papers that were really already written, in his head, just waiting to be let out; there'd be plenty of time for that now. He could go back to bed. But he didn't feel like doing any of those things. He felt jittery, yet flat, panicky, with nowhere for that panic to go. One knee jiggled up and down, and when he stopped it, his hands began to twitch.

He tapped his earpiece.

"Sheppard?"

"Huh... yeah?"

"Were you asleep?"

"Uh... kinda."

"Oh. Do you sleep with your earpiece in?"

"No. I... uh... I thought you might want to talk. Or Ronon."

"Oh."

"Do you?"

"What?"

"Wanna talk?"

"I didn't think you did the whole talking thing."

"You don't want to talk about... um... feelings and stuff, do you?"

"No."

"Oh. Well. That's good, then."

"So... er..."

"I was wondering..."

"Yes?"

"If you were Spidey, which route would you take, from the East Pier to the West?"

"Hmm... interesting. Well, obviously I'd have to incorporate a particularly impressive superhero pose on top of the Control Tower."

"Which part?"

"Either the very top, or halfway up one of the sheer slopes above the Jumper Bay. Squatting, with one hand down, just my very fingertips touching..."

"And the other arm out, wrist ready to shoot web."

"And a really heroic, determined expression."

"Yeah. I can picture that. Cool."

"Very. Um... Sheppard?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm not sure... I mean, this is... um..."

"One day at a time, McKay. And if you can't deal with days, try one hour at a time."

"An hour. Anyone can do an hour."

"Sure they can, Rodney."

oOo

"Yes, Rodney." Radek listened. "No, Rodney." He flicked a key to change the display on his laptop. "Yes, Rodney." A pause. "Yes, I see that. Yes, I understand. Yes. Rodney?" A strident squawk broke out from Radek's earpiece and split the silence of the room. He winced. "Rodney! Yes, the system will work, and yes, I understand it and yes, we will monitor it together. And Miko. Yes." A further squawk and then blessed silence.

Radek took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then ran his hand back and forth through his hair, leaving its straggling wispiness half sticking up, half sullenly flat. He put his glasses back on. He regarded his laptop, which currently displayed a mass of coding, representing a small fraction of the intricacies of the quarantine system that Rodney had woven into Atlantis' existing lockdown protocols. It was a work of genius. Radek considered accidentally breaking his earpiece so that he could admire said genius from afar without suffering the regular haranguings which would surely be his lot more than ever in this unprecedented situation. He tapped the laptop to return it to a summary of the city systems.

He thought about the months ahead, and, oddly, found himself wondering what to do with his hair. At some point he'd either have to cut it or scrape it back in a ponytail, like the not-so-dear, thankfully-departed Kavanaugh. He had some scissors somewhere. He looked around at his quarters, the clutter he'd amassed over his years on the Ancient City; the books, the papers, the artifacts from this world and that, the photos of his much-missed pigeons. He compared the room to others that he had inhabited for extended periods of time. _Better than a tent in the bitter-cold depths of a Prague winter,_ he thought. _Better than a prison cell in a Communist jail; better than a small, damp, badly-built apartment where you may not speak your mind for fear of the listening bug._ Here, he had not only comparative luxury in the form of a comfortable bed and his own bathroom, as well as, he hoped, enough food, but the freedom to share with friends and colleagues, albeit over the comms, any and all ideas, notions, wishes, or indeed flights of fancy that alighted in the nest of his mind. He could speak, write or sing without fear of censorship or repression, which was a blessing he would never cease to be thankful for, having grown up with no such privilege. In fact, he admitted, a small part of his mind always glowed with ironically amused admiration at Rodney's total lack of self-censorship; the direct line between his turbulent intellect and his mouth would have swiftly brought about his quiet disappearance in Communist Czechoslovakia.

The problem with freedom of speech, however, was finding someone to listen. He could always discuss work with his colleagues (a one-way discussion if it was Rodney), but what he really wanted was a like-minded enthusiast with whom to discuss all the finer points of the breeding and care of racing pigeons. Maybe, he thought, that was the answer to this current situation; maybe he could fill the unexpected bonus stretch of downtime by writing the definitive guide. _That's what they call a positive spin,_ he thought, with some pride. And, he continued to himself, that's another benefit of having had a miserably deprived, oppressed upbringing; the ability to see the positives and make the most of what you do have.

"Malé ryby taky ryby!"* he told his room.

oOo

The lock clicked, the door slid open. Ronon sprang out, his head whipping one way and then the other; his palms itching for his weapon, the familiar hallway feeling wrong, almost as if he were about to rescue prisoners from a hive ship. The air was still; no breeze, no subtle movement caused by other living, moving beings, no faint and far-off footsteps or words. It was an uncomfortable, almost eerie feeling; Ronon shook it off and focussed on reality. His mission today: visit the supply cupboard, find some soap and see if there was anything to draw with, and then the food stores to stock up for the next few days. Ronon had decided to ration himself, knowing that he could survive on very little, especially if he wasn't getting much exercise.

He prowled, silently, automatically slipping into runner mode in the strange atmosphere. He'd encountered quarantines before; villages that had cut themselves off to try to stop the spread of disease. Nothing like this though, where each of them was locked in their own solitary existence, cut off from all human contact.

Ronon had spoken to Sheppard and McKay over the comms a couple of times, and even Woolsey once; that had been an awkward and one-sided conversation. He wasn't much for conversation, though; never had been, even before his time as a runner. He found his thoughts were mostly quite happy in his own head and didn't need the validation or reflection of others' thoughts and opinions. He knew he could do solitary, had done it for years, but he'd grown used to having people around; their voices, their faces, their stupid jokes and, in McKay's case, their whinging. He couldn't exactly call up McKay and ask to be whinged at. Could he? Might be worth a try.

He would miss running with Sheppard. And fighting with him. And Teyla. Teyla, who had sometimes, in the beginning, explained Earth culture to him, and sometimes been as mystified as he was. And when Sheppard and McKay were really laying into each other in some kind of festival of slang and sarcasm, he would meet Teyla's eyes and it was almost as if they were parents, sharing a rueful moment over the heads of their squabbling offspring.

Ronon passed a doorway, forbiddingly closed, and walked on down the hall. Then he stopped, turned around, trod softly to the locked door and listened. The sound was muffled, and he couldn't remember whose room it was, but it was unmistakable: somebody was crying.

"Hey!"

"The sobs continued.

"Hey!" he called, louder.

Silence, but no answer. Ronon knew he couldn't stay; other people would be pacing their rooms, waiting their turn.

"It's okay!" he called. "We're all here. We'll get through this!"

He wasn't sure if he'd heard a muffled reply.

oOo

The door opened, and she rose, listlessly from the unmade bed, a detached part of her mind commenting that her depression hadn't over-ridden her need for food; yet. She rubbed her eyes, glanced at the mirror, began arranging her hair into some semblance of order, and then stopped and thought: _why?_ Leaving her hair in disarray she stepped out of her room, feeling the weight of her action, where before her mind would have skated along the corridors far ahead of her body, eager to begin the day's duties.

There was a drawing on the floor. A drawing, roughly scrawled, in that thick yellow chalk they sometimes used to mark things out for training manoeuvres on the piers. It was just a stick figure; drawn in haste, with a wildly grinning face and a lot of hair. She felt her mouth curve into a smile. One hand crept to her throat and tears welled in her eyes. The voice she'd heard earlier had been real; a voice of hope in the silence.

She set off for the stores, and every time she passed a locked door, she called out, "Hello! I'm here!" so that others would remember that none of them were truly alone.

oOo

Another death after, what? Forty-eight hours, give or take. Woolsey's voice had been regretful, but calm, resigned. John tried to imagine how the event had really played out in the infirmary, what was happening there now; the two remaining members of the team, knowing they were living on borrowed time, that death could strike at any moment. And the Marines and the Gate techs, hoping, maybe praying, that they had been far enough away, that the virus hadn't reached them.

John sat on the very edge of his bed, lip gripped tightly between his teeth, adrenaline flowing with no outlet, nothing to fight, nowhere to run. He tapped his earpiece.

"Keller? Jennifer?"

A pause, then a slightly muffled, "Colonel Sheppard?"

"Uh, I just heard. Just wondered how you're doing?" _Stupid question_ , he thought.

"Well..." she hesitated. "It's... it's pretty tough, you know." Her attempt to infuse some lightness into her voice was pitiful. He guessed it was her way of holding back the flood of horror; a tactic with which he was all too familiar.

"You're in hazmat all the time?" _Another stupid thing to say._

"Yes. Yes, we decontaminate at the end of each shift. I've spent so long in this suit that I'm pretty used to it now. We all are."

"Can I talk to them?"

"I think that would help, Colonel. I'll make sure they have earpieces."

Fallon, Ramirez, O'Shea, Jones, Christensen, Williams; all scared and trying to hide it, all speaking of hope amid their fears, amid their horror. They had seen their colleagues die. John talked to them all for as long as they wanted, then took out his earpiece and put it down on the nightstand. He'd lost people before; many people, good soldiers. And he'd been helpless to save them before, and, in some cases had giving the orders which had led, directly or indirectly, to their deaths. This, in many ways, was worse. These deaths achieved nothing, saved no-one, protected no-one. They had not died, were not dying for a cause, but merely from some random mutation of nature. Dying by slow, inevitable inches.

John thought, in a detached kind of way, about punching the wall. He would relish the explosive power, relish the pain, because, just for a moment, it would feel like action, like he could make a difference. But then reality would quickly follow, and his fingers, broken in a futile act, would be a mark of disrespect to those who had no choice but to suffer genuinely.

He wondered when his door would open, and when it did, where Atlantis would let him go; far, he hoped. Far, far, fast and free in the silent City, his heart and feet pounding together, so that he could pretend, just for a while, that lives depended on his running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Even small fish are fish


	3. Chapter 3

Richard Woolsey looked at himself in the mirror, determinedly smoothed away the deep furrow between his brows and relaxed the harsh lines around his mouth. He put up his chin, straightened his tie and gave himself a sharp little nod of approval. His door was open and he stepped through, with a sense of adventure and set off, marching smartly, keen to find out where Atlantis' isolation protocols would take him for his much-needed constitutional.

The previous day he'd visited the stores and then immediately contacted Dr McKay to patch him into the city-wide comms. His broadcast was pithy, and he only avoided sarcasm by a hair's breadth in his firm directive that those who found it necessary to take more than a reasonable share of toilet paper should return what they did not require to the stores at their next visit. He almost added 'unused', but stopped short, knowing that the Marines at least were already saying the word, and amusing themselves by imagining various distasteful scenarios.

Today, he thought the path created between locked doors was leading him to the Gateroom and he considered, with a very small smile, if he might indulge himself by delivering a dramatic speech from one of the balconies; one of Churchill's speeches perhaps, or some Shakespeare. "There is a tide in the affairs of men," he muttered, "which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune." Yes, he thought he could remember the whole thing; he'd always preferred it to the more well-known, "Friends, Romans," etc.

Woolsey, however, was destined for disappointment; he would not be taking his tide at the flood today because the way was barred against him. Atlantis' current would wash him elsewhere. He turned away, with a sigh.

Then, his face reflecting his absolute delight, Woolsey stopped, as still as ever he could be, and, with his whole mind and heart, he listened. Somebody was singing in the Gateroom; singing Puccini into that beautiful, ancient, reverberate space, with such heartrending longing and absolute clarity that he felt tears spring to his eyes, and, knowing himself to be entirely alone, he let them run, unchecked, down his cheeks, and they dripped from his chin and made damp marks on his shirt. The singing faded away.

"McKay! Citywide! Now!"

There came an acknowledging grunt from Rodney, who no doubt thought another prosaic rant about hoarding supplies was in the offing. A peremptory, "Done," and then silence. Had the singer gone? No; the pure, clear tones soared once more. Woolsey's heart melted and he actually sat down in the middle of the hall, listening: Puccini, 'O mio babbino caro.' Atlantis was flooded with beauty and Richard Woolsey, who was an experienced man, realised, as he had many times before, that life was full of wonder; though there was pain, there was also laughter; though there was horror, there was beauty. And these feelings, these contrasting threads of colour were woven in an inexplicable pattern, that surely must be the creation of some higher being, so that life's tapestry was rich indeed.

oOo

_"Don't know that I will,  
But until, love can find me,  
And the girl who'll stay,  
And won't play,  
Games behind me,  
I'll be what I am,  
A solitary..._ crap! Sorry!"

John's car had crashed into someone's locked door, interrupting his walk and his mumbled singing. He carried a box of supplies underarm, leaving only one hand free, which at least partly explained his careless driving. He put down the box, picked up the car and checked it for damage. It was fine.

"Built to last, aren't you?" he said, putting the car down. "Great. Now I'm talking to a toy... er... scale model. I don't play with toys, do I? I talk to inanimate objects, though, apparently."

John picked up his box and set the car back on its meandering progress down the hallway. He reached his room but then stopped, opposite the entrance, looking at the car, inside the room. Himself outside, the car in. He reversed it back out. John knew that, as soon as he stepped over the threshold, the doors would slide closed and lock behind him. He took one more breath of freedom, and then let his thumb push forward the switch on the remote, imagining it controlling both himself and the car. The door slid shut behind him. And locked.

John kicked off his boots and flopped down on the bed.

"McKay!"

"Sheppard. What did you get?"

"MREs, some dried fruit... er... a can that the label had fallen off, so that's my entertainment sorted for the day."

"What, guess the contents?"

"Yeah. Wanna play?"

"Sure. Erm... Catering size?"

"Standard."

"Hmm... interesting."

"I'm thinking maybe chilli powder, cos you wouldn't need much of that, even cooking for all of us."

"Does it come in that type of can?"

John shrugged.

"Dunno."

"Frosting!"

"Dream on."

"It could be!"

"I'll let you know. Hey, this decontamination process? How does it work?"

"Why? What've you done?"

"Nothing. Someone'd left a magazine in the stores. I took it."

"Oh, that'll be fine. It's some kind of anti-viral, anti-microbial, anti-everything gas."

"Anti-Wraith?"

"Sadly, not. Anyways, gas released, gas vented, job done."

"What'd happen if you were in there at the time?"

"You wouldn't be. But nothing good."

"Oh."

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"What kind of magazine?"

"Oh, ha, yeah, um... Just the regular kind."

"Might it possibly have been pre-owned by a Marine?"

"Marines aren't the only ones who..." John cleared his throat, feeling his face heat.

"That kind, then."

John sniggered. "Hey, I know, when I've... er... read it... a coupla times or so, I could leave it somewhere for you to find."

"Where?"

"In that sculpture thing you pass on the way to the stores. I'll put it high up, so no-one'll see."

"Cool." A pause. "Of course, I don't usually..."

"No. Of course not," John said, seriously. He realised a strange twitching feeling had been building in his fingers as he'd been talking to Rodney, an itch in his palms that suddenly seemed to run all the way up past his elbows to his shoulders, and across his chest. He thought about it.

"Rodney?"

"Yes?"

"Are you okay?"

A long pause.

"Well, you know, all things considered, I suppose yes... and no."

"Me too. I miss..." He nearly said 'you'. "I miss doing stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Normal stuff. Briefings, missions, going to the messhall, going to your lab. Um... I kinda miss... uh... people."

"I miss physical contact!" burst out Rodney. "There! I've said it! I miss touching and being touched and, you know what? I don't care! I don't care what people think! When this is over, when I can go out, I mean as soon as I get out, I'm hugging the stuffing out I everyone I can lay my hands on! You, Ronon, Teyla, Jennifer, Radek, even Woolsey! Everyone! Except maybe I'll draw the line at some of the really tough-nut, hard-ass Marines."

"Don't draw that line, McKay! Cuddle the Marines! You'll have them tearing up same as the rest of us!" John meant it, and was alarmed to feel a prickling at the corners of his eyes as he spoke. He briefly flicked off his comm-link to sniff loudly.

"So, who do you think that was, singing in the Gateroom?" he asked.

"Someone with powerful lungs, that's for sure."

"Banks?"

"Amelia? She of the kick-boxing? I'd have put her down as an alto."

"Who'll be next? Hey, you could do a star turn!"

"Only if someone's got a piano through the Gate shield. Singing's not really my thing. Maybe I should share some of my research? Or my thoughts on leadership?"

"Ha, yeah, funny." John hoped he was joking. "Anyway, think I'll have a shower."

"Another? How clean do you need to be?"

"Somethin' to do." John tapped his earpiece to break the link, but he didn't move straight away. He lay, staring at the high ceiling and then held his hands up in front of his face and wiggled his fingers. Physical contact, Rodney had said; not something John thought about much usually. But this almost-itch in his arms, in his chest? That was what it was, he realised; a need to touch and be touched. Those little contacts that he made without thinking - the touch on an arm, the pat on a shoulder, the slap on a back, even the odd smack to the back of Rodney's head - they all added up. They added up to some kind of bonding that, John realised, was something he needed. He thought about Teyla; about the first time he'd done the Athosian greeting, forehead-to-forehead. He'd felt uncomfortable, embarrassed, she in his space, he in hers; but at the same time there was such a sense of rightness, of peace. He thought about Elizabeth, those awkward hugs they'd shared, she clinging tight, uninhibited, usually from relief that he was, against all odds, alive, and he, feeling pleased but foolish, not sure what to do with his hands. He realised that now, his hands had each made their way to the opposite shoulder, forearms crossed on his chest in a kind of self-hug. He left them there for a moment, then he got up and undressed and stood, for a long time, under the stream of hot water, feeling its dispassionate, unsatisfying touch.

oOo

Jennifer stared into the darkness, unable to sleep. Two more deaths: Corporal Fallon, another of Cruz's team, and Sarah O'Shea, a Gate technician, which was very worrying, except that Jennifer was so worried already that becoming even more worried was an abstract concept that sank without a trace into her overall sea of constant worry. She wondered if she'd go grey or lose her hair; or eyebrows, because she'd had a friend once who'd lost her eyebrows during her Finals. But how selfish, to think of eyebrows and hair when people were dying. She tried to calm her thoughts by taking deep breaths, but her mind churned with anxiety and randomness. It would be easier to give up sleep, she thought; falling asleep was difficult and waking, worse. Her instincts seemed to wake up before her mind, so that her muscles tensed and her heart raced and she went into full-blown fight-or-flight mode before she even remembered why.

Jennifer's thoughts returned to Sarah, the Gate technician who had died. She carefully steered her mind away from scenes of the actual death, which teemed in her head, and considered the implications. The airborne infection had reached the control level; had it spread into the ventilation system before the lockdown protocol kicked in? The plume of a forming event horizon must set all kinds of air currents swirling around; Jennifer had often felt the breeze herself when the Gate activated. She began to imagine the virus as fine, black seeds, among the clear, pure air of Atlantis, spiralling and scattering throughout the city to sow a harvest of death.

She slept, but her dreams were not sweet.


	4. Chapter 4

Miko Kusanagi entered her quarters carrying a bright orange crate. She set the crate down within the carefully delineated rectangular area surrounding the threshold and slipped off her shoes, as she always did, leaving them perfectly arranged, heel aligned with heel, toe aligned with toe, facing the door. She stepped over the precisely-laid boundary of black tape, placing her feet into her slippers, padded softly over to a small, black cabinet and knelt down in front of it. She opened the doors and regarded the contents; her precious rice cooker, the last remaining bag of short-grain Japanese rice and a small, lacquered tray on which stood a selection of condiments, spices and seasonings. There was also an electric kettle, a tea set and a chazutsu containing green tea. Miko shuffled some of the contents closer together, spoiling their arrangement, but making some space. She rose gracefully and began to transport the contents of the case to her cabinet. She had not taken a full week's rations, because she had her rice, and so she had selected some tinned meat and vegetables and left it at that.

When she had put away the food, she carried the offensively orange crate to the bathroom and put it in the shower stall; not an ideal solution, but she would not allow it to mar the simplicity of her main room. She then took out the rice cooker, carefully measured out a portion of rice, and put it on to cook. She checked the little bonsai, a tiny tree which had come from Lantea, giving it a small amount of water, and then held her tiny pruning shears poised for a moment, before placing them carefully back in their pouch. Then she knelt down, in seiza position, on one of the zabuton cushions that she had brought from Earth, on the precisely tessellated mats that the Athosians had made for her, which were as like tatami mats as they could be.

Her room was as traditional as she could make it; calm and ordered and carefully arranged. Miko had had a very traditional upbringing, confined and constricted in some ways, she knew, and yet safe and loving and lavished with attention as the only child. Her grandmother had lived with her and her parents; her baachan, whom she missed very much and thought of now. During the war her beloved baachan had had to work hard in a munitions factory, surviving on very little food and living a virtual prisoner in bleak barracks accommodation. She had done her duty as best she could, without complaint, but it had been hard, she had told Miko, very hard. Her stories had inspired Miko as she grew up, for if baachan could remain dutiful and stoic under such circumstances, how much easier must it be for Miko to study hard, to learn as much as she could, to be the best she could be for her family, for Japan? And, since she had come to Atlantis, she had continued to work hard and respect the great scientists and leaders and be the best she could be for Atlantis and for McKay-sensei, as she called him only in the privacy of her own mind.

Miko knelt, small and traditional in her stoicism and stillness, the faint bubble of the rice cooker the only sound in her carefully-arranged room, thinking of her baachan's long-ago hardships and accepting this time of aloneness as a part of her duty, as a burden she must and would bear with quiet, reserved dignity.

oOo

Ronon sat, cross-legged, on the floor of his room, staring at the wall. His throat hurt, because that morning he'd felt like yelling; it had seemed like the thing to do. So he had. He hoped he hadn't scared any of his neighbours; or anyone quite a bit further away. He'd yelled pretty loud. And felt better for it.

"Hey, Sheppard," he croaked. "McKay. Teyla."

He continued to stare at the wall, motionless, and then suddenly leapt up and ran his thumb along Rodney's mouth, smearing one side into a slight, downward curve. He wiped the yellow chalk off on his pants and sat back down again. Yes. That was good. It had taken a while to achieve that trademark McKay expression, that subtle combination of terror, irritation, arrogance, bravado, and, Ronon had to admit, steadfast bravery. He'd drawn the three of them lifesize. Sheppard slouched in the corner of the room, one leg crossed over the other, hair awry, his mouth quirked into a lazy half-grin. McKay stood in the centre, arms crossed, each hand gripping the opposite elbow, shoulders slightly rounded, knees a little flexed; he looked as if he were either about to snap and flee from a terrifying enemy, or snap and give the same enemy the tongue-lashing of a lifetime. You never knew, with McKay. Teyla held her bantos rods and wore the expression of contemplative challenge that was peculiarly her own. It was an expression which spoke of her intention to beat you up, whip your ass, hammer you 'six ways from Sunday', but all for your own ultimate good.

Ronon looked at his team; just sat, and looked, and remembered. The good times, the bad times, the fear and the laughter, and most especially those early days of gradually dawning, carefully hidden wonderment at Sheppard's easy camaraderie and Teyla's open acceptance, as well as his initial confusion, followed by quiet pleasure, that McKay would be as rude and impatient with him as he would with everyone else.

They were an odd bunch, his team. But they were his, and he loved them, each in their own way. When this was over, he could tell them; or he could just wind up McKay, let Teyla hit him with her sticks and wrestle Sheppard to the ground and sit on him, which would say all that needed to be said better than any words.

oOo

Rodney stepped out of the shower, dried off, wrapped a towel round his waist, wandered idly out of his bathroom and noticed that his door was open.

"What the...? How long...? Oh, God!"

He snatched, swearing, at the clothes he'd left scattered on his bed, the towel fell to the floor, and he ran into the corridor, totally naked and still slightly damp, swore again as he glimpsed the small, sad heap of his abandoned boxers, and hesitated sufficiently over their retrieval that his t-shirt became trapped between the firmly closing doors. He swore again.

Rodney had forgotten that it was his exercise day, forgotten that his door would open at some random time when another member of the expedition had returned to their quarters and their route had been decontaminated. And Atlantis, not being one, apparently, to force unwanted exercise on her inhabitants, would only leave the door open so long before she assumed that you weren't interested, and locked it again. Once you were out, though, that was it. You had your hour, and if you happened to step outside your door carrying yesterday's thoroughly lounged-in pants and literally and decidedly nothing else whatsoever, then it was your own tough luck.

Rodney put on the pants, swearing a bit more as they bunched up on his damp skin and zipping up very carefully indeed, because skin-trappage didn't bear thinking about under any circumstances and definitely not in the current situation.

He looked around and ran his hand over his damp hair. Had anyone been watching, Rodney would have brazened it out; he would have stuck his chin determinedly in the air and marched off down the corridor as if he had work to do of such vital intergalactic importance that he simply didn't have time for social niceties, i.e. clothes. Any nascent comments would have been swiftly and sharply quashed by the raising of a haughty eyebrow, and a hard stare, nicely judged to depress pretension. As it was, however, alone, a ticklish breeze raising goosebumps on his exposed skin, Rodney felt cold and silly. Nevertheless, he knew that others had infinitely harder burdens to bear, and so he set off for some much-needed exercise.

"Ronon wouldn't even have bothered with clothes," he said to himself, picturing his teammate seeing the open door and casually lounging out, to disport his nakedness wherever Atlantis allowed him to go, with a total, and, Rodney thought (with a tinge of envy), reprehensible lack of inhibition.

John would have grabbed his gun, with unerring accuracy, snatched up the first bundle of fabric that came to hand and dived out of the door, with some kind of skidding flourish or a roll across the corridor, which would have ended in a well-balanced firing position, in case of marauding voyeurs. He would then discover that he'd grabbed a pile of dirty underwear or a bedsheet or something, and spend the next five minutes blushing and sniggering à la Beavis and Butthead, after which military training would kick in and he'd improvise. He imagined John strolling the corridors clad in a draped bedsheet. Would he stride regally, like a Roman senator on his way to the forum? Perhaps. But then he'd set up his customary fast-paced jog, forgetting that togas aren't designed for such things and then maybe he'd follow a train of thought to the campaign tactics of Julius Caesar and his various methods for killing barbarian hordes, the sheet would flutter away, abandoned, and he'd only remember his lack of clothes when he arrived back at his door. Whereupon he'd shrug his shoulders and dismiss the incident to the back of his mind, that elephants' graveyard of the many things he didn't want to think about.

Or perhaps not, and Rodney's creative imaginings were springing up in his mind solely in order to distract him from his rather exposed state. Although, he thought, if there was any imagining going on, it could be put to much better use. Suppose Sam Carter was still in command? Suppose the whole 'just stepped out of the shower to find the door open' scenario had happened to her? He spent the next few minutes indulging in increasingly lewd and lurid fantasies until his pants began to feel rather constricting, and he realised Atlantis had steered him to the Gateroom. Plenty of opportunity for exercise here, he thought, feeling small and even more solitary than usual in the vast and silent space. He could run circuits, jog up and down the stairs and do push-ups against the railings, or something; Sheppard would. He could sit in Woolsey's chair and pretend to be in charge. This idea was swiftly elbowed out of the way by his common sense; who would want to be in charge of this situation, even in fantasy?

Rodney wandered over to the main staircase and sat down on the bottom step. He regarded the Gate, with something approaching longing. He pictured himself, with his team, about to embark on a mission; a mission to investigate an Ancient outpost ( _good old Ancient outposts,_ he thought), in a... Hmm... maybe a jungle, but without dangerous animals and some really good tropical fruit (not citrus). Ronon would hack and slash the undergrowth with big knives, so he'd be happy, Teyla would somehow tune in to the jungle's growth pattern and move through it like a sleek forest cat, and John... he'd find something to shoot. Rodney cancelled his dangerous animal embargo and imported a large, charging, clawed and toothed beast, which John would heroically face down and cut in half with his P90. And then there'd be a ZPM, no, two, at least two, and a charger, like a giant battery charger, all ready to plug in back home on Atlantis.

Rodney came back to reality, the images shattering and falling, the smile that had relaxed his facial muscles dissolving back into his now routine frowning tension. He was cold and alone and he wanted to go home; home to his team, home to his friends, home to an Atlantis that was busy with sound and movement and people who were really there, and not just visions conjured up by his lonely mind.


	5. Chapter 5

John had decided to shave. He'd had quite a respectable beard going, but it had been itchy and he'd been slightly worried about the amount of time he'd been spending scratching it and staring into space, so he'd decided it had to go. He padded out of the bathroom, rubbing his newly-smooth jaw admiringly, and wondering whether he should tackle his hair next; it was beginning to edge into McGyver territory and John didn't think much of the 80s look.

He carried out the sequence of exercises he'd devised in an attempt to keep in reasonable shape; it wasn't very interesting and he'd need to think of a way of varying it to remain motivated. A faint chittering came from his earpiece so he picked it up and put it on.

"Goood morning, Atlantis," came Major Lorne's voice, "and a fine and sunny morning it is too, in fact it's probably going to be scorching out there, so why not stay in and enjoy the air-conditioned luxury of a genuine Atlantis lockdown! And of course, stay tuned to City Radio, 'Love listening while you're locked in!'"

John smiled; Lorne was a natural. City Radio had evolved over the first few weeks of quarantine, from Woolsey's daily citywide addresses, which had been reassuring in their way, but rather dull. One day Woolsey had asked John to do it, and he hadn't really known what to say, other than, 'hang in there', 'try to keep in shape', and 'don't eat too much', which had been uninspiring, to say the least. Lorne had called him shortly after and, the following day, had delivered a simple, friendly message, encouraging members of the expedition to 'phone in' if there was something they wanted to share. This had led to a couple of impromptu performances; one of the botanists had played 'Home on the range' on the harmonica, and one of the rowdier Marines had given a lively rendition of a particularly filthy drinking song, which John should definitely have stopped after the first verse, but didn't, because they could all do with a good laugh, and he could always pretend he hadn't heard.

John listened as he prepared his breakfast. Today, this consisted of a packet of crackers and some dried apples, with the unfortunate supplement of a few anchovies. These had been the contents of his mystery can and were very salty and didn't really go with anything. He felt obliged to eat them, though, because it would be wrong to throw any food away, and besides, they were at least a source of protein.

He listened to someone play a folk tune on the violin, and then Lorne interviewed one of the cooks, who had some tips on quarantine cuisine. John wondered if he should ask about his anchovies. Then Lorne announced that Melody Jones wanted to speak and John sat down. 

A couple of days earlier, Jennifer had sadly informed the expedition of the deaths of Private Ramirez, the last member of Cruz's team, and Corporal Christensen, one of the Marines who had been on duty in the Gateroom when the team came through. The other Marine, Private Andy Williams, was still alive and so too was Melody Jones, the Gate tech whose colleague, Sarah O'Shea, had died several weeks earlier.

There was the sound of a clearing throat and then the hesitant voice began.

"Um... so, I just wanted to say hello to everyone, so, 'hello'." She laughed, nervously. "And, um... " The sound of a deep breath, shakily released. "I guess I wanted to say... to say goodbye too." Another breath, and then Melody continued, her tone strained, yet resolute. "I've had a good life. I've had love, I've had joy, I've had a lot of laughter. I've seen the beauty of Earth and I've, well, I've lived and worked in a galaxy far, far away, so, beat that, yeah? Um..." she hesitated. "So, yeah, I would've liked more of those things. Would've liked to meet someone special, have kids, see them grow..." Her voice cracked and someone spoke in the background, but she carried on. "There's a lot of things I would've liked to do, because, you know, life's amazing, and I see that now more than ever. And I don't accept this peacefully. I don't say 'it's my time', because it's not. There's no reason to it, it's nothing I did, nothing I deserve, it's just that bad things happen and this one's almost certainly going to happen to me. And I don't say 'why me?' either; it's random, totally random, so I might as well say 'why not me?'" She paused, then continued. "I want to say, that although this thing, this disease will probably kill me, it does not define me." The words sounded as if they were being ground out through gritted teeth and John heard an iron-hard will behind the voice that he'd never suspected lay hidden inside the rather reserved scientist. "My death does not define my life. My life may be nearly over, but the cause of its ending does not negate what came before. It doesn't change what I've seen, who I am, it just... it doesn't. That's... that's all."

There was a long pause, and then Lorne spoke.

"Thank you, Melody. And, I think I speak for everyone in saying that we're thinking about you. You and Andy. All the time. I'm gonna leave it there today, folks, so, let's just keep going, keep looking out for each other. And make sure you tune in tomorrow."

It was a sad note to end on; sad, but uplifting at the same time, that a young woman facing death could be so positive about her life. And maybe she wouldn't die, John thought. Maybe she would be one of the lucky ones, one of the miracles. He hoped so.

oOo

The Daedalus had come. The Daedalus, that had been on its way back to Earth when the crisis hit and had been delayed for weeks by essential repairs, and bureaucracy, and still more bureaucracy. New personnel had been due to travel to Pegasus, so they had to be temporarily diverted or reassigned, the standard resupply items had to be reassessed in light of Atlantis' current situation and more appropriate items agreed upon and added to the long list, sourced, delivered and loaded. All of which meant that Rodney had long since run out of both coffee and chocolate. And he knew that there were others suffering a great deal more, but this attitude only took him so far when it came to coffee and chocolate.

He had enacted the resupply subroutine of the lockdown protocol, which allowed him to open a very small, decontaminated area to the outside world and designate personnel to fetch the supplies. He'd chosen a group of four Marines who shared quarters; the system would arrange a route between the supplies and the stores. It would take them a while, and exercise and food-stocking sorties would be delayed for everyone else, but it would be worth it.

Rodney had let everyone know about the resupply the day before, on Lorne's 'radio show', and Lorne seemed to have got the impression that he was some kind of guest interviewee.

"What can we expect, Dr McKay?" he'd asked. "The usual, or will there be some special items, under the circumstances?"

"I don't know!" Rodney, becoming impatient, had answered sarcastically, "Cakes with files baked inside?" Lorne had laughed and Rodney, surprised, had continued, "I'll be checking any cakes personally!"

Another laugh and Lorne had rounded up the interview, "Dr McKay, always with our safety in mind, no matter what the personal sacrifice!"

Cake would be nice, Rodney thought. Coffee and cake. Coffee and coffee cake. With walnuts on top. Although, maybe not too much cake because, judging by the feel of his waistband, the lack of exercise wasn't doing his physique any favours. Maybe he should have designated himself to fetch the supplies, and spent the next day or two, a struggling beast of burden, porting it, one crate at a time, up to storage. That would have burnt off a few calories. He didn't relish the thought of all the exercise he'd have to do to get back in mission-ready shape. And then there was his hair, which was long enough now that its natural curl was showing; he must look like an overfed sheep.

He scanned through City systems quickly to check that all was well, and then picked up his chittering earpiece and put it on. He was surprised to hear Ronon's gruff tones.

"...pretty hard to keep in shape, so I thought it'd be good to exercise together."

"So, come on folks! Get up off your bored behinds and work off some of that lockdown lard, with City Radio's new fitness guru, Ronon Dex!"

Lorne's bonhomie really was relentless, thought Rodney. 

"Oh, I suppose I'd better," he said, with grumpy resignation. He got up, pushed his desk chair in, and used his feet to sweep aside some of the accumulated debris on the floor. After Lorne's build-up, Ronon's mumbled instruction to "run in place," appeared somewhat terse, and Rodney soon found parts of himself wobbling that he didn't think should wobble, and parts that should wobble, wobbling more than they should. He didn't like it, and stopped.

"C'mon, McKay, you can do it!" came Ronon's voice, through his earpiece.

"Huh! What?" Rodney began running again. He progressed through jumping jacks, stretches, and all kinds of undignified leaping around and generally moving in ways that his body had forgotten were possible, and didn't think much of.

"Better now... I s'pose..." he panted, his arms shaking as he tried to push up from the ground, "than in the gym... in front of everyone." He collapsed, one flushed cheek smushed against the floor, his eyes unfocussed.

"Get up, McKay!"

"How does he do that?" wheezed Rodney, hauling himself up on trembling legs.

oOo

Miko felt the smooth texture of the woven straw under her hands and, as she lowered herself to the ground, she could still smell the faint summer-sweetness that had pervaded the air, as she had worked with the Athosians to make her mats. She remembered the blue sky and the sun, warm on her shoulders, the slight prickle of the straw hat she had worn and Teyla's smiling attentiveness as she had told her about Japanese culture.

Miko pushed up again, and down, up and down, her arms straining, her mind wandering free in the fields of Lantea and the meadows of New Athos.

oOo

Radek bounced around his room, pretending to be a taragund, a Satedan animal which, he thought, must be like a kangaroo, or maybe a large rabbit.

"Keep your paws up!" ordered Ronon. "Another fifteen seconds!"

"Do prdele!"

"Ten... nine..."

Radek spat out the hair that had floated into his gaping mouth.

"Five... four..."

His glasses slipped to the end of his nose.

"One... Thirty seconds rest!"

"Thirty... seconds?" Radek slumped onto his bed. He caught the eye of one of his pigeon photos. "This exercise... it is not for me, Anežka!"

oOo

"Legs wide apart, arms spread, reach down and touch opposite feet."

The stiff figures around her spread themselves out like deformed stars and began twisting and bending forward. There were shrieks of muffled laughter, two of the figures tumbled into each other, and Jennifer came to the conclusion that it really was virtually impossible to exercise in a hazmat suit. It was hilarious trying, though, and even though her clothes beneath the suit were damp with sweat and her mask was steaming up, she was glad they'd all had a go, and especially glad to see Andy, puffing and red-faced, but smiling, and Melody, creased up with laughter from watching the clumsy orange-clad figures.

"Thirty seconds rest, then taragunds again!" said Ronon. "But this time hold your hands up next to your head, cos they've got long ears."

There was a chorus of groans and one of the nurses made bunny ears and began hopping, heavily. Melody dissolved into laughter again.

oOo

Richard Woolsey loosened his tie and debated taking it off. Perhaps he should have changed into his uniform to exercise. It crossed his mind that it might have been best to carry out the routine in just his underwear, but one had to maintain certain standards, even when alone.

He thought about standards and the maintaining thereof; in a Citywide quarantine situation, where most members of the expedition were isolated individually, it was difficult to assess whether any kind of reasonable dress or behaviour codes were being met. It seemed, though, that most people were managing, each in their own way, as best they could. The inhabitants of Atlantis seemed to have adapted and adjusted and settled down into a new idea of what constituted normality.

Even in the infirmary, where the pressure must be intense, Woolsey knew that day to day life went on; Dr Keller had reassured him that she and her team and her two remaining patients were coping, painting a picture of humour, kindness and bravery in the face of crushing dread. He marvelled at the resilience of all of the people under his command, and felt a surge of intense pride. As a united team they were a formidable force, but even physically divided, they stood, firm and resolute, together in spirit.


	6. Chapter 6

John collapsed onto his bed, pulling his damp t-shirt away from his chest, feeling the chill of sweat in his hair.

"Hey, Rodney! D'you do it?" No response. "McKay!"

"Uh-hugh."

John grinned. "I'll take that as a yes. You're gonna do it tomorrow, too."

"Nuh-uh."

"That's an 'oh, yeah', not a 'nuh-uh', Rodney," said John. "I need you fit and mission-ready when this is over! McKay?"

"Gonna sleep. Or shower. Or sleep in the shower."

"Okay, well you enjoy one or both of those!" He clicked off the link and thought about having a shower himself. Ronon had worked them hard, that was for sure. But that was good; everyone needed it and Ronon did too. Something to focus on. John sat up and started peeling off his t-shirt, then hesitated, thinking. His clothes needed washing; what would be the point of washing himself and his clothes separately?

"Alright, then," he said, pleased with his idea, and surprised that he hadn't thought of it before. He headed for the shower, kicking off his running shoes, but otherwise fully clothed. Of course, as soon as he reached to remove his earpiece, Rodney spoke again, sounding considerably more awake.

"Sheppard. Caldwell's about to leave. He wants to talk to you."

"Patch him through."

"Colonel?"

"Colonel."

"We're about to embark. I just wanted to say, good luck. I hope you all get through this."

"Thank you, sir. And please pass on our thanks to your crew. I know it can't be much fun being cooped up for three weeks and then have to go straight home."

"Oh, I don't think there'll be any complaints. Six weeks is nothing, compared to your situation."

"Well, I suppose if you look at it like that..."

"Glad to help, Colonel, all of us. And we hope you'll enjoy some of the special items we included in your resupply."

"That's got me wondering! Well, safe journey, Colonel."

"Thank you. Daedalus out."

John took out his earpiece and turned on the shower. Special items. Whatever they were, it was good to have something different to look forward to.

oOo

"Nc5," said Radek, moving his knight.

"Hmm..." came the thoughtful response.

Radek stared at the chessboard, scheming, sequences of moves running through his head, numerous outcomes and his subsequent responses branching out, a complex web of possibility, in his mind. His thoughts wandered. Dr Parrish wouldn't be making a move any time soon. He changed the radio frequency on his earpiece, and the smooth tones of their resident DJ announced a song, "by the ladies of the Marine corps."

A clapping beat began and voices singing a bell-like riff. Radek slumped back on his couch and closed his eyes.

_"Mr Sandman, dream me a dream..."_

He smiled as he listened, and it was time, he decided, to admit a rather uncomfortable truth.

_"Give him two lips, like roses and clover..."_

It was time to admit that he wasn't finding his isolation so very hard. He had access to his work and access to his colleagues and, importantly, he could limit that access. If Rodney jabbed insistently in his ear, he could simply take out his earpiece and pretend he hadn't heard; he'd been in the shower, or asleep, or was out on his occasional exercise or resupply, and it seemed to be part of the new quarantine etiquette that you didn't disturb someone enjoying a rare moment of relative freedom, unless they'd particularly asked for company. He had his chess partners, and now that the Daedalus had brought more sets, more people could play properly without having to resort to soulless online games or scraps of paper representing the pieces.

His guide to all things pigeon was progressing well, and it was reassuring to hear all the pigeons cooing agreement with him as his eyes ran across the framed photos; Anežka, Veronika, Naděžda, Čeněk and little Pavel.

The singers went round again, varying the harmony and dynamics.

_"Make him the cutest that I've ever seen..."_

Radek felt safe, which he knew was an illusion; this was still a Wraith-infested galaxy and he was in quarantine from a deadly disease, after all. But he enjoyed the illusion of safety, cocooned in his own little world, and he was beginning to wonder if, in the end, it might be hard to emerge. He doubted if he would metamorphose into a bright and dashing Zelenka-butterfly. More likely he would be a shabby and reluctant brown moth.

_"Please turn on your magic beam!  
Mr Sandman dream me a dream!"_

Lorne's applause sounded loud in his ear, breaking into Radek's reverie.

"That was great! You guys must've practiced real hard!"

"Yeah, well, we wanted to do something good, cos we, er... we kinda had a few issues early on."

"Oh?"

"Huh, yeah, we... er... didn't take too well to being cooped up together, to begin with." A guilty pause. "We fixed the place up, though!"

"Really."

"Yeah, although, we think Kate's fingers might need resetting, you know, when we get out 'nd Dr Keller's free. And... um... I'd really appreciate it if she could straighten my nose?" A sheepish laugh. "It got broke."

"I'm sure Dr Keller will be delighted to listen to any and all requests at the appropriate time."

"And... um... d'you think Colonel Sheppard'll be really mad?"

The Colonel's voice broke in. "Under the circumstances, Corporal Jackson, I think I'll be inclined to go easy on you."

After that, the line was bombarded by the military, and even a few civilians, publicly confessing to various crimes and misdemeanours committed during the quarantine. Radek was waiting for someone to say, "Forgive me, Colonel, for I have sinned." He squirmed guiltily, the facetious thought sitting uneasily with his nominal Catholic faith, and he flicked the radio frequency back to his chess game.

Radek sat, in silence, alone and content to be so, waiting for David to make a move.

oOo

Miko set down her orange crate in the usual place, changed her shoes and began unpacking the contents, a small smile breaking out as her eyes fell on the delights that had been marked for her attention. It was as if somebody had reviewed the personal items she had ordered over the years and put them together as a thoughtful gift. She placed the packets of instant ramen in her cabinet, all except one, which she opened and emptied into her favourite bowl, setting the tiny flavouring sachets to one side. She filled the kettle and switched it on to boil, then put away the rest of the items. The books, she added to her shelf, with a gentle caress to each of the covers and a thrill of anticipation, the urge to look inside forcibly repressed. The pad of high-quality drawing paper was placed reverently in the cabinet drawer, the new pens, which would produce sharp, black lines of varying thickness, next to it. The kettle boiled. She added water to her noodles and the contents of the flavour sachets and, in a small dish, placed several pieces of tsukemono, the pickled vegetables that she loved.

Miko ate her meal slowly, kneeling at her low table, savouring the comforting silky-smooth ramen and the bright flavour of the tsukemono. Her eyes strayed to the bookshelf. She would not rush her meal. She forced herself to take small bites, to let her senses linger on the tastes and textures. She finished, and washed her bowl, her little dish, her spoon, her hashi, and carefully put them away. She unfolded her futon and straightened the cover.

Her hand hesitated over the bookshelf, with anticipation as delicious as her meal, or perhaps more so. Selection made, she settled, cross-legged on the futon, and prepared to indulge her passion for the visual beauty and rolling emotional waves of yaoi manga.

She would read and absorb from cover to cover, her mind and heart enthralled, and then, reviewing her favourite pictures, she would select one and copy it, with her new, precise black markers, on to her fresh, white paper, adding in extra details here and there, infusing more beauty and conjuring more life into the boys and men that she knew were not real, nor even, in many ways, life-like. And yet, for her, they lived, and she loved them.

oOo

_Thud-thud, smack.  
Thud-thud, smack._

"McKay! You been yet?"

"No! And all the good stuff'll be gone!"

_Thud-thud, smack._

"No, it won't, cos I made you a nice little pile and labelled it 'Rodney's stuff'."

"Did you?"

"Yeah!"

_Thud-thud, smack._

"What's that?"

"This?" _Thud-thud, smack._ "This is someone's sense of humour. Maybe Caldwell, but my money's on General O'Neill. You know the Great Escape? Steve McQueen?"

"A baseball!"

"And a catcher's mitt." _Thud-thud, smack._

"Huh. Very funny. What's in my pile?"

"Wait 'n' see."

_Thud-thud, smack._

"Is there coffee?"

"Wait 'n' see!" _Thud-thud, smack._  
"There were DVDs. Multiple copies, so we can watch together.

"Definitely General O'Neill's idea of team bonding."

"Ha, yeah, that and retreating through the Gate under heavy fire. Guess what I got?"

"Not Back to the Future?"

"No."

_Thud-thud, smack._

"The Great Escape?"

"Yeah. Ronon's not seen it."

"Let's hope it doesn't give him ideas. Ooh, it's open, it's open!"

"Go, Rodney!"

_Thud-thud, smack.  
Thud-thud, smack._

Ronon had got a copy of the DVD and John had set one aside for Rodney. They could have a watch party.

_Thud-thud, smack._

McKay would be bouncing off the walls soon, John thought, just like the baseball. Coffee and chocolate after weeks with none; he probably wouldn't be able to sit still long enough to watch a movie.

"Colonel Sheppard." Woolsey's voice, carefully restrained. John braced himself.

"Sheppard here."

"Colonel, I have some bad news."

oOo

Jennifer held the hand, feeling the smooth inner surface of her glove pressed tightly against her skin. She said nothing, because what could she say? What could she say to someone who'd just seen a colleague die? A colleague who, in the long, infirmary-bound weeks, had become a friend, the remaining two bonded together by fear, by the terrifying prospect of a shared fate

Melody appeared calm now, her face blank and emotionless, just her eyes moving, restless, revealing the maelstrom of her thoughts, her mind searching for a chink of light in her dark future. She had been distraught when Andy had collapsed, devastated when he'd died shortly after, but had pushed away the offer of a sedative.

She spoke, her voice broken but determined, one hand clenched in her blanket, the other still gripping Jennifer's.

"I don't want drugs, sedatives. I'm here now... I need to feel, now... while I can. You see?"

"Yes, I see."

"Don't mind the heated blankets, though. You can pile me high with those." She smiled and sniffed, her eyes slowly filling and tears sliding down her cheeks, ignored. "You know the worst thing?"

Jennifer just looked, smiled slightly, her shoulders moving in a tiny shrug. Melody held up their joined hands, her own with pale skin and white knuckles, Jennifer's hazmat-clad, impersonal.

"This. I'll..." She swallowed and took a breath. "I'll never touch, or be touched again. Not properly." She turned her head away and took several deep breaths. Then she turned back. "I want you to know that you've helped. You've made a difference. I know it must feel awful, because you can't stop this happening. But you've made a difference to me, to all of us. So, thank you."

Jennifer's throat ached with grief.

"You're welcome," she whispered, but through the thick protective visor, she wasn't even sure if Melody had heard.


	7. Chapter 7

"Gooood morning, Atlantis, and with the countdown standing at fourteen days until lockdown lift, we've got some special guests for you this morning. So, if you've been wondering what your Military Commander has been missing most or what your Expedition Leader will be loath to leave, stay tuned for these and more. But first, it's Lieutenant 'Haggis' Munro with 'Scotland the Brave.' Not too close to the microphone, please, Haggis!"

The shriek of the bagpipes filled Woolsey's ear and he jerked out his earpiece and held it at a safe distance. Fourteen days. Fourteen days until the quarantine was lifted. Over five months of isolation. Even at this stage, Woolsey hardly dared hope that the virus had been contained, and that it was possible, surely it was even probable, there would be one survivor from the eight originally exposed to the contagion.

It had been a strange time, he reflected; a time of contrasts. On the one hand there was the stark reality of the sudden deaths of seven members of staff, and the potential for the extinction of the expedition in its entirety. On the other hand, there was the day-to-day grinding boredom and mundanity of confinement, the bleak loneliness of isolation. He considered that his personnel had done an excellent job of keeping themselves and each other occupied and entertained. Woolsey recognised, however, all too well, that there would be a cost; a price to pay both physically and mentally for the relative inactivity, the formlessness of days unbroken by variety, unstructured by routine, that had at one time seemed to spool into the future, like an endless white tape.

When the quarantine was lifted, he would almost certainly be recalled to Earth for an exhaustive debrief, and with this dismal thought, Woolsey realised the bagpipe melody was coming to an end, the drone fading, and in a moment, the questions, (much easier than those likely to be posed by the IOA, he hoped), would begin. He stood up straight before his mirror, and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle out of his uniform jacket.

"Mr Woolsey, perhaps you could start by telling us what you've missed most during your time in quarantine."

oOo

John listened to Woolsey's voice with half an ear, while trying to comb his hair into submission. It looked ridiculous, he thought, smoothing it down and feeling the ends tickle the back of his neck just above his t-shirt. Should he risk cutting it and making it worse? If he cut it straight round, surely that'd look like a girl's haircut, like a bob or something. How did you cut different bits at different lengths? John brushed heavy locks out of his eyes and sighed. There was no escaping it: he had McGyver hair. He ran both hands through it from his forehead right to the back. It parted in the middle and swept to either side, McGyver-style, and it occurred to him that women seemed to like McGyver, and his hair. Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing, then. And they'd all been locked away for five months... John began to consider his 'release' outfit. McKay had said that the quarantine would lift at the same time as it had locked down, which would be the middle of the night, but that didn't matter; who would sleep when freedom beckoned? He recalled that McGyver was usually clean-shaven and sometimes wore a cool leather jacket; those things could easily be arranged.

"Colonel Sheppard? Are you there?"

"Lorne! Yes... Sheppard here!"

"Thought you'd broken quarantine for a minute, there Colonel! So, folks are all waiting to hear, what's been the hardest part of lockdown for you?"

oOo

"Not being able to fly, definitely!"

"Ha, yes, well, definitely maybe, Sheppard!" said Rodney, listening to John's answer with scepticism. "Just come right out and say it: you've missed working with your esteemed colleague, one Dr Meredith Rodney McKay! And Teyla and Ronon, of course."

"... and just doing stuff. You know, normal stuff that normal people do."

"How articulate," Rodney sneered, but he knew exactly what John meant; even in an Ancient city in a far-flung galaxy, many things that were normal for humanity in general still applied; waking to a day of varied interactions, having meals together, touching each other. Rodney had found the lack of physical contact hard to begin with, and as the months passed, he was reminded of a conversation he'd overheard once, when he'd been staying with Jeannie. A friend had visited with her baby and there was graphic detail of the birth, which he'd tuned out determinedly, but, for some reason, the new mother had been separated from her newborn, and a phrase had stuck in Rodney's head. She had said, "My arms grieved." He felt now, that he had some inkling of what she had meant; his arms felt desolately empty. Not that he went round embracing people left, right and centre on a daily basis, but it had been so long, so very long, since he had had any human touch at all, that his arms ached with an almost sickeningly hollow vacancy.

Of course, there was the fact that, other than the threat of sudden death by alien virus, he hadn't had to deal with any major crises; there had been no last-minute savings of the world, at risk to life and limb, and, for a moment, Rodney wondered if he'd miss the comforting, anodyne dullness of quarantine. No, he wouldn't, his self-knowledge countered. Sparks: that was what he wanted. Sparks struck against other intellects, sparks struck in his mind as ideas clashed, broke and reformed, sparks struck on the challenges of life.

He came back to the present, and Lorne was asking John, "So, what can we expect after the lockdown? I guess things'll be tightened up, get the troops back on track?"

"Well, yeah," came the drawling response. "But, you know, I had this horse once, a mare." Rodney pictured John, rubbing a hand round the back of his neck thoughtfully. "And if you tried to be the boss, keep her under control, she'd fight you every step of the way. Give her a loose rein, though, and just a twitch or a word here and there, she'd go sweet as anything."

"That's military discipline from your horse-whispering CO, folks. Next up, we'll hear from Dr Rodney McKay. But first, no, not a word from our sponsors, but a tune from Corporal Jeffries on his flute."

The gentle tones of the flute began, and Rodney wondered what Lorne would ask him, and whether he would, or could, share how he truly felt. Probably not.

oOo

McKay seemed to be talking about food a lot. He'd already mentioned most of the hot meals the Atlantis kitchens produced, with particular reference to anything that came with gravy, and now he was onto desserts. Ronon could see right through his words, even though it had been five Earth months since he'd seen the man himself. Because, yeah, the guy missed proper cooked meals; Ronon, too, was fed up with eating out of tins and packages. But all those words were hiding the true stuff; the stuff that'd come out all clipped and jerky and hurt-sounding from a drooping mouth, over a jutting chin, over an aching throat; the stuff that said, "I'm lonely. I want my team and my work and my life back."

"... sponge pudding, steaming hot with a big ladleful of sauce..."

Yeah, Ronon missed the food. But mostly he just wanted out. he wanted freedom and space and the things that told him he was alive; running and sparring and real, proper fighting. And killing; killing Wraith. The whine of his blaster, the rattle of the P90s around him, the thrill and terror of his enemies' strength and his roaring triumph as they fell. He wanted out and he wanted his team: simple.

oOo

"Yes, Naděžda, it is simple for one such as Ronon. He is confined, so he craves release. There is no greyness of heart, where perhaps confinement brings peace, and release brings danger and discomfort. It is for souls such as ours, moje holubi,* that things are not so easy."

He looked each of his avian friends in the eye.

"But we know our duty, don't we, maličcí?”** We know that we must use our skills as best we might to defend, to maintain, to explore, so that, if come forth we must, we will come."

The pigeons twittered and cooed their agreement and Radek nodded and squared his shoulders.

oOo

Miko listened to Dr Zelenka's soft-voiced answers to the Major's questions. She had given each of the interviews her full attention and thought that the last two were the most honest, the most transparent. Ronon Dex, who had terrified her when he had first arrived, but whose gruff exterior she had learnt, hid a deeply compassionate soul, had been straightforward in his desire for action. Dr Zelenka, who even after all these years she still hesitated to call Radek, spoke openly of his mixed feelings.

"I am sure there are others who feel they have become accustomed to confinement and are not sure how they will manage their freedom," he said. "I think... I hope that seeing our friends again, working alongside each other, we will soon learn to be free once more."

Radek Zelenka was a brave man, Miko thought, to speak out so openly. But then, she had known that for a long time. She recalled, with fondness, many occasions when they had worked together; each calm and methodical, following the other's train of thought, building on shared ideas. Miko had endured her months of solitude with what stoicism she could muster, trying to make the best use of her time, but sometimes having to force herself into busy occupation in order to drive out despondency. She would be glad to return to her routine, to her colleagues, but recognised that the transition might not be easy.

Major Lorne would be putting his questions to her next; she would be as honest as Dr Zelenka, in the hopes that exposing her own apprehension might show others that they were not alone.

oOo

"Last up, before we open up the line to anyone who wants to spill their guts, er... share their thoughts, we have Dr Miko Kusanagi, that heroine of the physics department who's put up with, er, worked under Dr McKay since Atlantis Expedition Day One, over five years ago. A round of applause for Dr Kusanagi, please!"

Lorne's enthusiastic claps were followed by quiet words of thanks, and Richard Woolsey inserted a page break in his document and wrote the heading, 'Dr Kusanagi,' in bold font, underlined. He had made notes on all of the interviews and had gleaned important information, not just from the words spoken but from those omitted. He had come to several conclusions; firstly, that Colonel Sheppard hadn't really thought much about the difficulty of emerging from long-term solitary confinement into a busy environment and a position of heavy responsibility; secondly, that Dr McKay had thought about it and was either very worried or very evasive or both; thirdly, that Ronon would need a series of very active missions to let off steam, and fourthly, that perhaps Dr Zelenka had become a little more institutionalised than was healthy. These four, he thought, and added himself and Dr Kusanagi to his mental list, were probably a fair reflection of the condition of the expedition personnel in general. Routine would help; routine and regular food and exercise and, above all, being reunited with friends and colleagues. Perhaps some team-building activities could be organised.

His thoughts turned to the solemn ceremonies that he would preside over; memorial services for the fallen. A sad duty, but one that he would carry out to the best of his ability, and that would celebrate lives as much as mourn deaths.

Dr Kusanagi had finished and Lorne had opened the floor to all comers; this would definitely be informative.

Woolsey's radio crackled. Not the one connected to his earpiece, but another which he kept tuned to a separate frequency, so that Dr Keller could reach him at all times. He picked it up with acute trepidation.

"Woolsey here."

"Mr Woolsey. Melody's sick." Jennifer's voice was strangely neutral with suppressed emotion.

"Sick? Do you mean...?"

"No. That is... we don't know yet. Her temperature spiked, there was some bleeding from the nasal passages and I thought..." She paused, but then continued, her voice steady. "She seems to have stabilised. Her temperature's still high, but... it's been over thirty minutes. The others were all gone within that time."

"So, that means..."

"It means there's hope."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * My little pigeons  
> ** Little ones


	8. Chapter 8

John had woken late, groggy from a night spent thinking too much and dreaming too much. He'd lain awake watching his alarm clock creep toward 00:20, when there would be just twenty-four hours left of their months-long quarantine; that is, if the quarantine lifted. Rodney had said that if there was any trace of infection left in the city, they'd stay locked down, so it remained to be seen whether Melody Jones, miraculously recovering from the virus, was still infectious.

When John had eventually fallen asleep, his dreams had roiled with endless disconcerting possibilities. First every door was released but his, and he beat up on it, alone and ignored; then his door was opened but nobody else's, so he was free to roam the empty halls, but was helpless against his friends' imprisonment. Then everyone was released, but nobody could see him, and there were smiles and embraces all around, but none for him. And then, inevitably, he was released into a city overrun by Wraith. It had been an exhausting night.

The normal protocols were operating for this final day, however, and it was John's turn for exercise. His door opened and he stumbled half-heartedly round the corridors, his shoes pounding hollowly in the empty space, images from his nightmares jostling in his mind. Locked doors steered him to the Gateroom and he stood, breathing hard, at the top of the central stairs. He tried to imagine the room filled with people, and couldn't. He sat down on the top step, ran his hand through his ridiculously long hair, and thought.

He wanted out, properly out, with everyone and everything normal, and, as of tonight, that box would be ticked; job done, everything right with the world of John Sheppard.

"All good, then," he said unconvincingly, into the empty space. He spoke again, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. "I feel real good about that!" It was as if the words tumbled down the stairs and landed with a splat at the bottom. John became impatient with himself, confused about his feelings and not liking the confusion.

"I guess," he said, to the silent Stargate, "that this is why people talk about stuff. So they can find out what they feel. Set it all straight in their heads."

He considered whether he could empty the feelings out of his head in a spill of jumbled words, and sort through them on the Gateroom floor, like jigsaw pieces. Then he thought about jigsaws; that it would have been good to have had some during the quarantine. He wondered, if he tried to put together a metaphorical jigsaw of his thoughts and feelings, which ones would constitute the edge pieces, and which those tricky ones of the same smudgy colour that always took the longest?

Then he thought that he'd be better off just running as fast as he could for as long as he could, so that he'd be too tired to think at all. Falling back on this tried and trusted strategy, John ran round and round the lower level, fast, figure-eighted through the Gate til it made him dizzy, then up and down the stairs and up and down again. He pounded the vacant hallways, flew past door after locked door, until all that his body and mind registered were lung-strain, muscle-burn, heart-race, as he poured all his strength and power into achieving uncomplicated exhaustion.

oOo

In a strange kind of way, Rodney thought, it felt like his parents were coming to check that he'd tidied his room. Or that he was in college and planning to bring a girl back to his dorm, although those plans had rarely got beyond the theoretical stage, he recalled. The fact remained; maybe not parents or some random girl, but definitely his team would see into, if not step into his room at some point, and he shuddered to think of Teyla's expression as she observed the depths of squalor to which he had, he realised, descended.

He began to tidy, making a really thorough job of it, moving the furniture out, picking up every scrap of food packaging, making a pile of laundry and sweeping dusty surfaces with an old t-shirt. He even squirmed beneath the bed, pulling out a pair of boxers, two odd socks and, with a pleased little, "Oh!" of discovery, an intact, unopened cereal bar. He sat down on the bed to eat his prize, regarding the confusion of shifted furniture and varied detritus that surrounded him. He'd scraped together a substantial pile of trash and wondered if he had a bag he could put it in; it certainly wouldn't fit into the bulging waste basket. A shiny corner caught his eye and he pushed some scraps aside and twitched out the item; it was a team photo that he'd been intending to frame and had promptly lost and forgotten about. It must have slipped down behind something, he thought.

Jinto had taken it, on New Athos, and Rodney remembered him making faces at them and telling jokes to make them laugh. It was a great shot; he'd captured a moment where Sheppard had shoulder-bumped Rodney so he was slightly off-balance, Ronon was bending as if to scoop him up, and Teyla hopping out of Ronon's way. They were all laughing, their closeness, their total ease, captured with perfect clarity. Then the four figures were suddenly blurred, and Rodney set the photo down carefully on top of the nightstand. He would remember to frame it; soon.

It was just coming up to fifteen hundred hours. He carried on tidying.

oOo

John, fresh from the shower, contemplated his release outfit with disfavour. It had been a long time since any of his clothes had been properly laundered and ironed, and they hadn't fared well with his 'clothed shower' technique. Not that they weren't clean, but they looked sad and crumpled, and he suspected that not all of the soap had washed out.

He sat down on the bed, feeling the trembling ache of overworked muscles, as well as a sudden, chill run of water down his back from his newly clean hair. His stomach rumbled. A can of baked beans had been earmarked for dinner tonight, and John certainly wasn't getting dressed before eating those; he'd be bound to get bean juice down his front. Most of his clothes had been relegated to the laundry pile, in anticipation of actual, proper laundry, but he managed to find an old, semi-clean t-shirt and a pair of sweats that had holes just in the knees rather than anywhere too revealing. He put them on, opened the can and sat on the bed, leaning against the wall, his knees drawn up, and began spooning the beans mechanically into his mouth. His eyes felt heavy, the previous disturbed night and the punishing exercise session catching up with him. He turned his bleary gaze on his alarm clock: eighteen thirty. Plenty of time for a nap, then up, dressed, hair combed into artful disarray, he would be ready to stroll out to rejoin society, the epitome of casual cool.

The spoon rattled at the bottom of the can. He scraped out the remaining sauce and sucked the spoon, thoughtfully. Tonight, after all that time; tonight was the night. He felt an ache in his chest that rose up to close his throat, and made it difficult to swallow the remaining bean juice. He refused to analyse the emotion, plonked the can and spoon down on his nightstand and scooched down the bed.

John slept; the deep, dreamless sleep of the physically exhausted and recently fed...

... and something in his mind relaxed, like a long-held breath, easing into a grateful sigh. He smiled. And then frowned, and his eyes opened into darkness. John found himself out of bed and across the room before he was aware of moving, and he realised that he could hear pounding in the corridor outside; a pounding of boots, fast and urgent to match the pounding of his heart. There were voices; shouts, cries, laughter, and John reached for his door with one shaking hand, terrified that he would find himself locked in still, locked in a nightmare of isolation.

The door slid open and he had no time to look about him before a blur impacted his chest, and he was held tightly around his upper arms, and hands on his back pressed him hard against a warm, solid body. There was a head on his shoulder and light brown curls tickling his jaw. He heard and felt huge, lung-filling breaths, as if the desperate hugger were trying to inhale him.

"Rodney?"

A movement, and he was being held at arms' length, and there was Rodney, his face red and beaming, his eyes moist.

"Sheppard! Sheppardy, Sheppardy, Sheppard!"

Rodney moved in for another hug and this time John hugged back before he could be pinioned, his touch-starved body reacting instinctively, his craving arms reaching as far round Rodney as they could and clinging tight. And then there was another impact and they all three staggered, but held each other up and pressed close, each surrounded by arms and warmth. John closed his eyes and just went with it, letting himself squeeze and be squeezed in return, realising that he knew his team by scent alone, and missing the floral notes and resiny tang of oiled bantos rods. Eventually they broke apart and there was a round of back-slapping and shoulder-gripping, more hugs, constant grins and simply saying each other's names. Then Rodney, with another quick hug for each, began bouncing away.

"I'm going to hug Jennifer and Zelenka and Woolsey and... everyone!"

Ronon slapped John on the back once more. "See you later, John!"

Then they were gone.

John leant against the wall, stunned, looking down at his old grey t-shirt and the holes in the knees of his pants. So much for effortlessly cool, he thought. He looked up. The hall was empty, and his heart lurched. Surely he could still feel the warmth of his friends' arms? Didn't their scent still hang in the air? He needed to move, to find someone, anyone, so that he'd know it had been real. He had nothing on his feet. He’d have to go back into his room. And the door would shut and lock behind him. No, it wouldn't; he could hear voices and laughter in the distance. It really was over. He steeled himself, dived back into his room, desperately willing the doors to stay open, open, open. He snatched up his running shoes and leapt back out into the corridor, heart hammering in his chest.

"Get a grip, John," he told himself, sternly. He shoved his feet into the shoes and set off, running, toward the Gateroom.

It was like the roar of a waterfall heard from a distance, growing louder and impossibly louder as he approached, because, inevitably everyone had gravitated toward the heart of the City, to the Gateroom. He passed familiar faces, exchanged smiles, grins, touches and back-slaps, but the roar, the movement, the great mass of life was overwhelming, an assault on undernourished senses; too much, too soon, like a three-course meal presented to a famine victim.

John entered the Gateroom on the lower level and leant against the wall, hands in his pockets, trying to project his usual nonchalance, but actually allowing himself time; time to adjust, to assimilate, to observe: these, his people, before him, the military under his command, the civilians under his protection, all here within sight, within hearing, within touching distance.

The room was supercharged with emotion; laughter and tears and embraces and kisses and constant reaching and touching and holding. Somebody laughed loudly then flinched slightly at the sound of their own laughter, and, studying the undeniably happy faces, John noticed that, alongside the joy, there were many slight tightenings and flinches, tense postures and furrowed brows, many wide eyes and wondering looks. He could see the outward signs of internal struggle; the struggle to comprehend the stark difference between months of solitary silence and then this burst of faces and voices, movement and gestures.

There were others remaining at the periphery of the crowd, not interacting; some, like John, calmly observing, but here and there, figures stood stiffly, fascinated but shell-shocked. He spotted Zelenka, with wildman hair and both hands flat against the wall. John moved to go to him; he would take him to one of the labs, ground him in familiar work, see that he was okay. But no, Kusanagi had broken off from a group of her friends and was gently taking Zelenka's arm and leading him out of the noise and bustle.

There was Lorne, surrounded by what could only be called ‘groupies’. And there was Rodney, moving through the crowd like a charged particle, inhibitions thrown aside, carrying out his plan to 'hug the stuffing' out of everyone; no lines had been drawn and Rodney flung his arms around a huge Marine sergeant, who picked Rodney up and spun him in a circle before depositing him, grinning and reeling dizzily into his next pair of arms.

Keller and her medical team entered, a wheelchair in their midst, and the entire room erupted into a deafening cheer and a roar of applause and a thunder of stamping feet. Melody, the sole survivor of those in the Gateroom when the lockdown began, would have been mobbed, but Jennifer had her wheeled to a corner and the nurses formed a smiling cordon, letting only a few through at a time. John could see the scientist's face, shining with tears, smiling and sobbing. Both her hands were constantly held, and she kept glancing down at them and altering her grip, as if to make the most of the touch of real, human skin after so many months cut off by the barrier of hazmat suits.

Woolsey was standing at the top of the main stairway, so John pushed away from the wall and made his way through the crowd. As he weaved his way through he was amused by the variety of dress; some rumpled figures looked like they'd stopped caring, others had obviously gone all-out to look their best for their release. He caught a glamorous female group looking him up and down and sent them one of his casual, crooked smiles. There was a ripple of laughter and looks were exchanged between them; he was about to puff out his chest and strut, just a little, when it occurred to him that possibly he wasn't looking his best and that maybe the giggles were amused rather than admiring. Of course, this wasn't his outfit of choice; the black was always a safe bet and he knew he looked good in it. The old t-shirt and sweats combo, though: did it qualify as attractive disarray or had it edged into slob territory? He mounted the stairs with the spring in his step noticeably lacking, a small frown and lip-chewing in progress.

"Colonel Sheppard!"

Woolsey was holding out a hand; there'd be no excessive displays of emotion here. To his surprise, however, while one hand gripped his and enthusiastically pumped it up and down, the other rested on his shoulder and squeezed. He reciprocated and found himself grinning, more pleased than he expected to see Woolsey's well-groomed countenance and impeccable dress. _How is his hair so tidy?_ John wondered. He thought about edging round to look at the back, because surely the man couldn't have cut the back of his own hair evenly.

Woolsey began to talk about their achievement in having endured the long period of isolation, and John tried to listen, but his eyes were constantly drawn to the balcony door. It was open; open to the fresh night air, and a tendril of its clear, cold, salt-laden scent reached him. He inhaled and his eyes closed.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

"Yeah, sorry?" Richard Woolsey was looking at him, smiling slightly.

"Go on, get some fresh air."

He grinned and followed the soft breeze toward the outside world.


	9. Chapter 9

John had wondered where Ronon was, and now he realised; not here, on a crowded balcony, surrounded by others, wondering at the stars and the distant sea and the night-lit cityscape, but out and away, somewhere down there amongst the towers and flying walkways, running. Somebody jostled him and he wished he were down there too, alone in the cold night, breathing in the life of the outside world; but, no, not alone, surely he'd had enough aloneness by now? He looked up at the stars and felt the urge to be among them; he almost turned and fled to the Jumper Bay. But again, no, that wasn't what he wanted. He had freedom, he had fresh air, he had company, so why the ambivalence, again? John chuffed an impatient breath.

oOo

Rodney had hugged Richard Woolsey, and was feeling a pleasant satisfaction at having left him flustered and rumpled. He hesitated, feeling the need for something other than embraces to satisfy his deprived senses; he wasn't sure what that something was.

"Colonel Sheppard's on the balcony," said Woolsey, straightening his collar and smoothing down his hair.

"Sheppard! Yes, thanks." John was part of the solution, Rodney decided.

He couldn't see John. The balcony was a solid mass of humanity and he immediately became immersed in calculating how much live load this would impose on the structure in kilonewtons per square metre, and also, noting the number of people leaning against the handrail, would this exceed the maximum horizontal imposed line load for which it was designed? He recognised a huff of annoyance from somewhere behind him, shrugged, and decided the balcony was probably fine.

"Sheppard?" John was looking down toward his scruffy outfit ( _Why is he dressed like that, anyway?_ ) rather than at the night sky and Rodney noted the lip-chewing which indicated indecision or problems of an emotional, and therefore incomprehensible nature. He found his hand reaching out of its own accord and resting on John's shoulder.

"Rodney?"

"Sorry, I..." Rodney regarded the hand, leaving it where it was. "I can't seem to stop..."

"S'okay."

"So... um... We're out. We survived. We can get back to saving each other and the world and the galaxy and so on. Two galaxies."

"I think you've done a fair bit of life saving lately, McKay."

"What? Oh! The quarantine protocols. Oh, well, yes, they were rather complex and could only have been designed and executed by the fine hand of an acknowledged genius such as myself. But that's beside the point," he said, waving his brilliance away with a dismissive hand. "Where's Ronon?"

John gestured vaguely toward the lower city. "Running somewhere, I guess."

"Hmm..." Rodney regarded John with narrowed eyes.

"What?"

"You really don't know, do you?"

"What?"

"Come here!" Rodney grabbed John's hand, unapologetically. It was going to be a while before he got over this whole touch-deprivation thing, so people'd better just get used to it. He tugged John back inside and over to the Control area, where some of the Gate Techs were... It would be less than the truth to say 'refamiliarising' themselves with their consoles, Rodney observed; there was out-and-out carressing going on. He caught Woolsey's eye, and received a small nod of permission.

"Chuck, dial up New Athos!"

Chuck began to dial the address, the Gate symbols flickered, a chevron lit, and the crowd dispersed to either side of the platform. But before the sequence could complete, an incoming wormhole interrupted and the swirling event horizon burst into magnificent existence and then snapped back and settled. 

"Teyla's IDC," said Chuck.

"Perfect," said Rodney, and again reached for John's hand. But John had gone, and Rodney saw that he was already standing before the Gate, ready to greet the silhouetted figure who emerged, with a ripple, and held out her hands toward him.

oOo

"Teyla."

"John."

She took his hands in hers and bent her head forward. Their foreheads met and he closed his eyes and breathed in the light floral tones, the pine fragrance of bantos oil and the aura of calm, and welcome, and acceptance. Then there was another presence leaning in and they opened their hands to hold his and John's breath brought him the bitterness of coffee and the indefinable scent of impatience and friendship and Rodney. Warmth, then, to his right, and he let go of Teyla's hand to take Ronon's, and the heat and richness of well-worn leather moved in close. They stood, heads together, and their hands parted so that arms could cross shoulders, so that they could draw in and inhabit their own private world of each other's presence, just for a short time. This was release, John thought. This was the true end of quarantine. This was where he belonged, with these people who knew him so well that they were often aware of his needs before he was. He opened his eyes into the semi-darkness of their private space and heard nothing of the room at his back, nothing but the breaths of his companions. A silvery drop fell between them and splashed onto the floor and he had no idea whose it was and didn't care. It was a tear shed for them all, for their separation; for their loneliness, their helplessness, their powerlessness, for the frustration of inactivity, for the boredom of months-long waiting and wondering and simply being incomplete.

oOo

Eventually they drew back and blinked in the brightness and were surprised at the liveliness going on around them. Teyla observed the changes in her team; all of them paler than they should be, Rodney a little heavier, with soft curls falling around his ears, John, a little thinner, using the hair drooping over his eyes to hide his emotion, and Ronon, much the same, but with a hungriness for action about him that would probably not be satisfied by sparring.

"No Torren?" John asked.

"I thought my team might need all my attention," she said.

"You're not wrong there," said Rodney. He looked down at his hand as if surprised to find it had crept into Teyla's once more, then rubbed his eyes sleepily. John yawned. Ronon stretched out stiff muscles in his back.

"It is late..." Teyla began, but was immediately interrupted.

"Don't want to go to bed!"

"Not my quarters!"

"No!"

She smiled, reminded of her little boy at bedtime.

"Then perhaps you should come to mine. I have missed my rooms on Atlantis."

"Yes!" Rodney rubbed his hands together. "Sleepover!"

"We'll need food," Ronon rumbled.

"Snacks," said John, nodding hopefully.

"Lots of pillows and comforters," yawned Rodney.

"We shall hunt down these things," said Teyla, "together."

oOo

The memorials were over; speeches had been made, tears shed, lives remembered. And now for the paperwork, thought Ronon, watching Richard Woolsey, as he scrolled through the half-written report before him. Woolsey had called a debrief and Ronon had listened as Keller, Sheppard and McKay had filled him in on the physical and mental condition of the personnel, as they saw it. Teyla's contribution was more useful than Sheppard's or McKay's, Ronon thought. She had an outsider's perspective and was observant enough to be able to pick out in the crowded messhall anyone who wasn't doing so well.

"Does anybody have anything to add?" asked Woolsey, looking round the table.

"We should leave the mural," said Ronon.

"Yeah, it's pretty cool," said John. "Have you seen it?"

"No," Teyla shook her head. "I have not heard about it!"

"Outside the stores," Rodney said. "Someone drew themselves and left the chalk and it just grew from there."

"I drew Rodney!" smirked John.

"I knew it was you!" spluttered Rodney. "You didn't have to make me so... so round!"

John shrugged. "It was a cartoon! Anyway, whoever drew me made me look look all boneless and stretchy."

"You are all boneless and stretchy."

"Somebody drew me in a swimsuit," said Jennifer, blushing. "With proportions that I don't think are anatomically correct, somehow!"

John stared at Rodney, smirking.

"What?"

"Just wond'ring if you're gonna look at the ceiling and whistle."

"It wasn't me!"

"I would love to see it!" said Teyla. "Do you know who started it?"

"No," said Rodney. John shrugged.

"I do," Ronon said. "Kate what's-her-name, along the hall from me. Zoologist." He didn't mention what her inspiration might have been.

"The mural should definitely be preserved," said Woolsey, looking as though he'd rather it weren't, probably because, Ronon thought, whoever had drawn Woolsey had given the guy even less hair than he actually had.

"So, what have we learned on a personal level from this experience?" Woolsey continued

John's face took on the expression of confused innocence that appeared whenever the word 'personal' was used outside the context of defence weapons. Rodney looked similarly blank, for a moment and then snapped his fingers.

"Oh, you mean how life is precious and we should treasure every day and how wonderful and selfless our medical staff are! Already knew that, box ticked, move along, please!" Ronon grinned, enjoying the fact that Rodney's usual acerbity had returned along with his normal haircut. He still couldn't stop touching people, though, but that was okay.

"Oh," said Woolsey, deflated. "Well."

"We have all faced death many times, Mr Woolsey," said Teyla, gently. "We live with fear and uncertainty daily and have long since learned to enjoy the lives that we have alongside such things, and to value our friends as the precious gifts that they are."

John nodded, eagerly, slightly pink-cheeked as he realised his 'precious gift' status. "What she said!"

"I include you in this, Mr Woolsey. You, too, have faced death and, I think, have grown more appreciative of your life and all that is precious to you. I am sure you must have found pleasure even under quarantine."

"Well, yes, actually," he replied, looking down at his linked fingers. "I don't think I've ever experienced a moment of such pure joy as I did when I heard someone singing Puccini in the Gateroom. And it was all the more beautiful for being unexpected." He sighed. "Such feeling! _Senza mamma, bimbo, tu sei morto!_ " He sang softly and then sighed. "And I never did find out who it was!"

oOo

There was work to be done; systems to be checked, sensors to realign, data to sift, all the vital, technical procedures and challenges on which Rodney could deploy his sparking intellect, and, of course, the routine maintenance that he could delegate to lesser mortals. Very little would be achieved, however, with a certain Colonel perching on the workbench, swinging his legs and humming the theme to the Simpsons.

John reached down and prodded Rodney in the stomach.

"C'mon, McKay, this needs feeding! I just heard it growl!"

Pre-lockdown, the stomach prod would certainly have earned a strong protest, if not retaliation, but as touchy-feeliness seemed to be an ongoing need, Rodney let it go. In fact, his team had silently and mutually devised a system of touches ranging from manly to outright childish, which allowed them the connection they craved, while maintaining the outward appearance of socially acceptable semi-aggressive male bonding. John was particularly good at appearing to deliver hearty slaps to the back of Rodney's head, but with a minimal, friendly impact. Teyla, obviously, had no such boundaries, but it was easy to pretend that she had instigated the hug, the hand-hold, or whatever.

John nudged his shoulder. "Atlantis to McKay! You just zoned out! Lunchtime!"

"I didn't 'zone out'; you're distracting me!" snapped Rodney. "Can't you go and get beaten up or something?"

"Been to the gym already!" John exhibited a bruise on his arm proudly.

"Ronon or Teyla?"

"Teyla." He frowned, thoughtfully. "Ronon just wrestled me to the ground and sat on me, which was... interesting."

Rodney wondered whether the pleasant warmth and weight would outweigh the crushing pain. "Is that a normal thing for Ronon?"

"Not so much..." John shrugged. "Maybe he's been watching Wrestlemania again."

Rodney sat up straight and drew his shoulders back, grimacing. "Alright, you win. Lunch!"

John hopped down from the workbench. "Radek? Miko? You coming?"

The pair halted their low-voiced discussion and Zelenka turned around. "Yes, thank you, I will come."

"I would like to check my calculations once more, thank you, Colonel," Miko said.

"But they are all correct!" Zelenka assured her.

"Oh, well, better safe than dead where sensor arrays are concerned!" Rodney, his stomach and mind calculating the exact size of sandwich that would meet his suddenly urgent need, hustled John and Radek before him.

oOo

In the quietness of the lab, Miko ran through her calculations once more, meeting with no errors and allowing herself to appreciate fully the beauty and symmetry of the math involved. And as she worked, she began to sing, very softly, into the empty room.

_"O mio babbino caro,  
Mi Piace è bello bello,  
Vo' andare a Porta Rossa,  
A comperar l'anello!"_

oOo

A fresh ocean breeze lifted Radek's newly-trimmed hair and threatened to blow away his salad. It had been hard, the transition from total isolation back to his normal routine, as he had known it would be. But his pigeon friends had once more become lifeless photos and he had resumed his work and his duty. John and his team chatted and ate with a reassuring, casual intimacy, but Radek looked past them, past the balcony railing and out over the shining towers of Atlantis, toward the ever-shifting pattern of deep blue waves. And he wished that, just once, he might catch a glimpse of flurrying feathers and hear, carried on the breeze, an interrogative coo. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading. As always, comments are very welcome! I just wanted to let you know, as many of us are confined to our homes, that I will be writing steadily and, I hope, doing my bit to brighten your days. I am planning a little extra to follow 'Return to the Happy Helg - Part Two', because they never had their summer fair, did they? And I have a longer, detective mystery story in the pipeline, but the plot needs to be complex, so that one might be a while! I also have another idea for the Happy Helg series, possibly taking some of the characters to another world. And I think more pubs are needed, of various types, so maybe a series of little scenes where the team visit local hostelries. Hope you're all well and keeping cheerful. Sally x


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